


Sometimes

by Sthrissa



Category: Discworld - Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-06
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sthrissa/pseuds/Sthrissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he can almost imagine. Drumknott/Charlie, Vetinari</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, after a day rather more demanding than what he had prepared for, when the strain of his responsibilities begin to overwhelm him and his thoughts begin to escape his most-determined control, when in his fatigue the whispers and desires that he dare not name impinge with increasing insistence upon his concentration, he will excuse himself.

He will stand unobtrusively before the paper-covered desk, whose secrets are known to only two individuals still living, and will meet those forbidding eyes which can bring the hardest of the city's elite to their knees. His master's mood, which he is normally most adept at interpreting, will no longer be open to him.

As always their eyes will lock for only a moment and during that eternity, something he refuses to call hope will flutter in his heart before it is again reflexively, ruthlessly, suppressed. And, as always, he does not release a sigh when that eternity is broken with a nod from the very blank visage of his employer. For the next hour the Patrician will not call on his services.

The young man with nondescript brown hair and dressed in the robes of a palace clerk will silently depart the Oblong Office and, after what cannot be called a pause, a pair of cold blue eyes return to the City.

***

In the heart of the Patrician's Palace, behind thick doors and several sets of ceremonial guards*, in a dusty wing that once housed the royalty of Ankh-Morpork, there is one room that is occupied. Within these lavish quarters, richly furnished with everything a person not born into privilege could desire, there is an actor.

* Who over recent years, as the need for them slowly waned, have become increasingly ceremonial and rather less guard.

Once this individual had been an impoverished shopkeeper, unremarkable and unnoticed. Now he is a fifty-something actor and he spends his days staring into a mirror worth more than the combined contents of that other person's shop. Now he lives within a palace, surrounded by servants who adore his face. No longer a peddler of cheap garments serving unfulfilling mercurial interests with limited success, his life's purpose has been redefined. Now he is a skilled artist. He is needed. And whenever he is called to perform before his audience, he is respected. Sometimes he is even feared.

This person has an extensive wardrobe at his disposal and accessories of quality and detail far superior to that given to any other actor. A cane, every inch suggesting at concealed sharpness complements a very convincing limp. A ring decorated with only a 'V', never worn and appearing to even the most expert eye as deadliest quality stygium rests on a table* in a velvet box. Elsewhere there is a store of outfits of the finest quality to suit every function, every ceremony, every trivial social obligation that a head of state could ever conceivably not wish to attend.

* Next to what appears to be a mask made from iron, also never worn.

***

It is nearing the dead of night, many hours since those minions who keep the menial gears of the palace well oiled have returned to their own far less opulent homes, when even those guards and dark clerks who are trusted to defend, at all hours, the palace and that which lies within it, stand slightly less tall and less alert.

Yet even at this hour, like the figure he had been sculpted to depict, the actor remains awake and determinedly active. His mind is busy analysing the day's observations, filing away the useful lessons and formulating new ideas; chasing perfection. This is a familiar routine that he has undertaken every night since he first entered the Other’s service, years ago.

Although it has been a long time since anyone could fault his performance, this artist knows there is always more to learn, always something that could be better. And so he stares intently at a very expensive mirror and imitates gestures and movements, replicating the precise tilt of an eyebrow for each conceivable situation. Practising tirelessly in search of perfection.

In the mirror a reflection is wearing what appear to be the Patrician's black robes of office and very expensive shoes. A trimmed beard, manicured nails* and immaculate hair completes the thin, pale form. Perfect poise, perfect makeup, perfect costume. Perfect. Only the briefest glance at an empty space behind his shoulder, before the actor continues his task. The reflection's left eyebrow creeps slightly higher.

* Evidently a requirement for all assassins, because only common thugs would allow an active career to interfere with perfect nails.

He is a determined craftsman, this man in the mirror, dedicated to perfecting his most important and his only role.

  
A man who at this moment is not secretary to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, though he still wears the dull brown robes of a palace clerk and his fingers are stained with barely dry ink, lands a near silent knock upon heavy, ornate doors. Without waiting for a response he quietly pushes them open and, pausing at the threshold, he examines the reflection of a black-haired figure, intimidating and so achingly familiar as it gracefully turns towards him.

"May I enter?" The young man who is not a clerk asks politely, almost deferential, and the voice of an Ankh-born aristocrat assents, not a syllable to suggest a long discarded Pseudopolisian accent.

Ritual permission sought and granted, and conscious of the sole hour available, further discourse does not arise. The two move silently towards an antique wooden extravagance decorated with gold-ish flourishes that the aristocracy historically called a bed. They meet at the edge of an luxuriously soft mattress, smothered in expensive satin sheets and an exquisitely embroidered bedspread.

The man who is not a clerk stands before the black-haired reflection and briefly imagines another, smaller room: A narrow bed with a thin grey blanket, a small desk with a candle that burns almost throughout the night -_a candle that he now always personally (though discretely) tests before permitting it to be used_-.

He returns to the moment and finds the actor gazing at him with a fondness so perfect, so familiar, he could hardly tell the difference and he reciprocates with a warm smile he thinks is affectionate, perhaps even adoring. He always endeavours to be polite. The actor's gaze becomes brighter.

"Rufus…," whispers a smooth voice with barely concealed longing, trained by the highest quality instructors to perfection. Nearly identical and yet…

He places a finger upon soft, thin lips so accustomed now to imitating bleak irony, and after a moment a delicate kiss is gifted upon his fingertips. His hand lingers then transforms into a brief caress of that face, cultivated to appear intimidating and humourless, framed by a perfect imitation of a neat though rather elaborate beard. He silently moves backwards and permits himself the luxury of studying those familiar features.

He who is not a secretary examines the black-robed, near flawless figure before him. A profile that could be considered predatory, a long scrawny neck that always seemed oddly vulnerable, and pale blue-veined hands with elegant fingers manicured to perfection. Tall enough to be imposing when required and with the same alarming thinness that frequently makes him long to slip, with every file that he offers his Lordship, the highest-calorie sugar-laden cookies -_or perhaps candied starfish_\- to be found on the disc.

The other man stands expectantly before him whilst he conducts his survey, wearing such an expression of intent interest, with a gaze that is almost-freezing, almost-terrifying, almost the same pointed look that could shepherd silence into a thick small space and politely request that it be filled, that he could nearly believe... almost imagine... Almost.

He lays his hands upon the reflection's dark unfrayed robes which do not smell faintly of an indulged geriatric canine and unbuttons the tailored garment. His eyes close to undertake this near-sacrilege, near-ecstasy, as he savours the feel of the fabric beneath his fingers. The cloth, in slightly better condition than the robes of state worn by another, feels nearly identical to those treasured touches when he leans to whisper over a shoulder, to those stolen sensations when he brushes a sleeve accidentally, briefly.

He allows his fingers to ghost against skin as he deftly removes the layers from an outfit that could almost be the robes of office. No secreted items impede his progress. Eyes still closed he folds the fabric with familiar ease, and the scrape of hidden metal does not invade the silence of the room. With a care that is due to the property of the Patrician, he lays the clothes upon the chair that waits an arms length behind him and his own dull robes he speedily discard, effortlessly silent as always.

He longingly brushes the back of an inquisitive hand over pale arms and does not find discrete leather straps sheathing the tools from a long-ago profession. His palms do not caress the unexpectedly well-muscled chest and back of someone who can effortlessly scale the city's buildings, who has soared across its rooftops. He enviously runs ink-stained digits over a pair of beautiful hands whose deft, elegant fingers are not calloused to match the grip of a pen or a stiletto.


	2. Scenario I

He pushes gently, insistently upon shoulders that have not ever supported for hours the weight of a body lying in ambush, until the other sinks into the overly soft mattress and reclines upon the exquisite Agatean silk bedspread. He runs devoted fingertips over the bared skin, teasing and exploring a body so familiar and so heartbreakingly unknown.

His hands do not find the marks that The Run imparts on all graduates of the Guild. His searching touch ghosting across the smooth expanse of flesh on offer beneath him, brushes the unmarred skin of a thigh where he does not locate a ghastly scar. He fingers caress only perfect, unblemished skin...

Absent, that testament to the horrifying injury which was inflicted a time so long ago that he had not yet been privy to all his master's secrets, when he had been just one clerk amongst the many who served in the palace -_though such a situation was almost inconceivable now, unbearable_-, when the sting of betrayal from that -_#&amp;^@!_\- Wonse* festered still.

* A white-hot expletive which he does not allow to form, censored automatically by years of cultivated politeness. For many of his colleagues, that name itself was considered an expletive.

The clerk presses his trembling fingers into a strong, sure pulse, a femoral artery which had not been mere inches from being severed. A thigh that had not seen an impossible amount of blood surging out of gory, ravaged tissue. Which so very nearly might have -_fatally_\- been a chest. Beneath him a reflection of the beautiful, terrifying, magnificent man -_human, mortal, fragile..._\- who flirted and had almost fallen to the grasping claws of death.

It had been the first time, although unfortunately not the last, that the clerk was confronted with the fact that the brilliant, more-than-human creature who is slave and high priest to beautiful, terrible Morporkia, who has dedicated his life and his entire person in the service of the City, who loves and believes in Her like none of his predecessors ever did, could nevertheless bleed like any other mortal being. -_Never again, no. No!_-.

Eyes abruptly opening, Rufus Drumknott, Head Clerk to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, forces himself to remember that his master's injury -_not the chest, it was not fatal...a flesh wound_\- was long healed. To remember that the only evidence of those torn muscles were a scar hidden beneath layers of fabric, a cane widely known to be a concealed weapon, and a limp that his employer chose to discard before only a handful of individuals. It takes another moment before the suffocating nightmarish void of horror and fear fades sufficiently for him to draw a quiet breath.

With the ruthless efficiency cultivated through years of service to Lord Vetinari, the clerk wraps stubborn chains around his chaotic thoughts and drags them into grudging compliance before permitting his memories to surface.

He recalls the blood-soaked sheets, and the pain that he could still discern though it had been secreted behind an alert gaze that never lost its intensity. He remembers the bottle of alcohol gifted by the Archchancellor sitting untouched save for that first night. He remembers boldly embarking on a week of unnecessary and deliberately irritating hovering until finally the Patrician stopped trying to change his bandages by himself and permitted the assistance of his clerks. The first time he had dared challenge his employer.

He remembers sleepless nights filled with fears of infection, of fever, of accidents, assassination, conspiracies, coups; an endless stream of dread bleeding into hectic days handling the city's elite jostling for a chance to increase their personal standing. He remembers weeks spent deflecting those ever-present vultures salivating for a hint of his Lordship’s vulnerability. He remembers arranging ...contingencies... for potentially destabilising factors*. And through it all, as the hateful legacy of that betrayal by a trusted servant, a pair of calculating eyes assessed him with carefully concealed suspicion; icy blue and guarded.

* He has never asked whether the Patrician was aware of the plans that he and several of his fellow clerks had independently devised just in case a particular Watch Captain, at the time still a Corporal, had decided to be difficult. Such actions would probably not be condoned by their employer despite its intentions, and so all parties tactfully continue to pretend those plans never existed.

Allowing the unpleasant memories to fade the clerk instead focuses on the image of the gaze that now greets him, a daily affirmation of trust and acknowledgement. He silently reaffirms a familiar vow: Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, shall never have cause to look upon his secretary with anything less than absolute confidence.

The clerk's attention returns to the figure - the reflection - lying beneath him upon a luxurious bed with eyes shuttered and unseeing, breath increasingly ragged and, he distastefully notes, already quite uncontrolled -_though he appears to be getting more skilled_-. The man's longing is palpable and the clerk knows that with a simple command the actor will happily reflect whatever he desires, exhibit any emotion he requests.

He could demand a near perfect facsimile of warmth, a glimpse of that occasional -_precious_\- approving smile, or perhaps an expression of adoration, of love. He could even purchase, for the price of a word and a touch, the mirror of that inestimable regard of absolute unshakeable trust... forged by years of dedicated, loyal service.

The Secretary releases a near-imperceptible sigh knowing that the moment is lost. Already his mind yearns to return to those files that wait to be brought to his Lordship's notice, to be presented of course in an appropriately pleasing order. He yearns to turn his attention once more to the unending reports, memos and documents that were necessary for continued operation of an efficient government. An infinitely precious testament to a trust which he would never betray, that so much of those operations now were his responsibility to manage, without the Patrician's oversight.

His thoughts flicker to the agents, those dark clerks his Lordship had entrusted to his supervision, who would compile the dossiers on individuals, organisations, and foreign states so that he could maintain those files -_always with absolute care and attention to detail_\- and provide them to the Patrician at any moment. That constant stream of information flowing through his fingers to be analysed and synthesised into a form useful to his employer were an affirmation of faith far sweeter than the sweetest words an imitation could conjure.

He contemplates a review of the palace staff, the guards, the housekeepers and cooks. -_Discreetly and unofficially of course, but it is time to again be reassured of their trustworthiness and efficiency. And perhaps he should again ask the kitchen to increase the calorie content of his Lordships meals_-…

-_And given the time that has elapsed since the Patrician last had something to drink, his Lordship shall soon require some form of hydration. Not tea, since it is rather too late an hour for the Patrician to be inundated with caffeine. So fresh water* perhaps. Or maybe have some of that batch of man-go fruit gifted by the Genuan ambassador (and cleared by Sergeant Littlebottom** after a full spectrum of very thorough, though unofficial, tests) made into juice._-

* Imported from the pristine mountainous regions of very far away and whose owners have never heard of the words Ankh or River. It was marketed as being excellent for health and well-being owning to the tiny rare rocks in it that couldn't be seen.^  
^It had yet to find wide appeal within the Ankh-Morporkian market since most people didn't fancy themselves gullible enough to believe in water with invisible rocks.  
**She moonlights as a private consultant for the Secretary to supplement an income that is required to support an increasing variety of feminine beauty products.^^  
^^ It is mutually understood that their respective employers really do not need to know about this arrangement.

The clerk silently considers the slim figure who was so very unlike his employer, and rests his pen-calloused hand against the unblemished skin. The actor's eyes open and meet his with a warm blue inquiry. Endeavouring as always to be polite, the clerk offers the pale reflection beneath him an affectionate smile. Although the illusion has been broken for him and though his heart longs to return to his employer, courtesy demands that he at least finish what has been started.

The Secretary, thoughts efficiently organised once more, while mentally prioritising his duties upon his departure from this opulent room that is embedded deep within the bowels of the palace and yet is so distant from the heart of government, glides silently onto expensive Agatean silk and proceeds to be polite.


	3. Scenario II

He pushes gently, insistently upon shoulders that have not ever supported for hours the weight of a body lying in ambush, until the other sinks into the overly soft mattress and reclines upon the exquisite Agatean silk bedspread. He runs devoted fingertips over the bared skin, teasing and exploring a body so familiar and so heartbreakingly unknown.

His eyes open and he gazes upon the actor who lay upon the embroidered sheets, appearing almost identical, almost perfect. Waiting, willing him to continue. After a moment he obliges.

He draws the unscarred body into an embrace that could almost be sacrilege had it belonged to another. With worshipful care he ghosts his lips upon the bearded jaw, the thin throat, across a collarbone. His hands cling onto the reflection longingly, desperately. He offers a tender caress to smooth away the nail-shaped indentations from the pale delicate skin.

The reflection whispers a beautifully crafted pattern of words into his ear, ironic then teasing, threatening and gentle. The actor was well practised in creating the precise performance to best elicit a favourable response from the brown-haired man. He speaks generous endearments, offers approval and love in a smooth sensuous voice that was so very nearly identical, so expertly rehearsed. His every expression almost indistinguishable, every gesture almost perfect. Almost.

Studied mannerisms and practised words meet with the almost-worshipful touch of near-adoration. And he could almost believe... For one moment, in the eternity that lies between the heartbeats of time...

For a moment, unwavering loyalty and constant, unstinting endeavour is finally rewarded with reciprocated adoration; that love which will always be beholden to something far greater than any one person, finally his.

For a moment, an artistic creation is made whole with the complete, unreserved devotion of this nondescript secretary, the sole aspect of a near-prefect wardrobe that was forever unobtainable; the loyalty that was the exclusive property of the Other, finally his.

For a moment there is joy as you are chosen. The exhilarating thought that that wondrous mind which can understand and predict humanity with such inhuman skill, which manages to create order and hope from the chaotic and uncaring universe, that the mind which has tamed even this indomitable City finds you worthy.

For a moment there is ecstasy as you bask in the esteem of a bright and talented young man. He is right hand to the Patrician and his touch blazes through the heart of government and across the entire disc, and he chooses you.

He loves you, in this moment.

Imagine.

Reality settles heavily, dispersing those ephemeral filaments that had burned star-bright for a moment. The glassy fragments of a shattered instant quickly evaporate and are almost forgotten as two individuals quietly reattire themselves in their carefully folded garments. An actor and a clerk, a reflection and the Secretary to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, face each other in a lavish room deep within the palace.


	4. Epilogue

"Thank you Charlie," murmurs the brown-haired man as he straightens his robe and discreetly checks it for stains.

The former shopkeeper offers his companion a brief smile before once more assuming the costumes of his profession.

As he prepares to resume his duties, the Secretary recalls a matter of business. "You will be required to attend Lord Selachii's dinner tomorrow evening," instructs the Patrician's head clerk, "The carriage will be outside at six. I shall have the full details delivered to you tomorrow morning. I will not be accompanying you this time so you will need to be debriefed. Please meet me in the Oblong Office immediately upon your return."

With a demeanour crafted by the best training a Patrician's money can purchase, an actor responds perfectly, "Yes Mister Drumknott."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Scenario II was how I had initially intended the story to develop, but the first just bounced around in my head insistently until it was let out. My theory is that while typically, they will engage in an almost-unhealthy dalliance, sometimes Drumknott's imagination will drag him on a marathon.


End file.
